Luminescence
by PlatinumRosewood
Summary: A blonde robber with morals, and a fearless redhead. When the moon finishes it's phases, maybe they'll both be done hiding from each other. Summaries are shit, give it a go.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi all, I'm back. To be short, I've had this story rolling around in my head for years. I also promise to finish When Words Fail when I take a read through and determine how much is left/where I left off. I do plan on finishing.**

 **Anyway expect~ 25-30 chapters for this fic. I hope you like it as much as I do.**

 **~Rosey**

New Moons - Day 1

This was a rubbish plan and even Cook could vouch for that. But you go along with it anyway because something in the coastal air was invigorating and reckless. The sand and the sea and the surreal way it never really rained made you impulsive, made you need to get up and do something to change your life. You've sat too many days in that bloody office with pitiful white walls watching paradise through the slits of generic blinds, typing notes no one gives a damn about with monkeys in suits already under the spell of monotony.

Until you got fired that is.

You might be the only person to smile when come face to face with unemployment, because you were free and you got to stay _here._ Tiresome tourist spot as it may be, Florida rings loudly with its' luxury appeal. Not now though, as you head into the end of summer. Things wind down, the weather will cool and all the fanny packs, camera's and screaming children will dwindle, thank Christ.

You needed money because there's only so long an accountant's intern pay will support you by the costly state's coastline. You blame the weather, you blame the chokehold of newfound freedom, you blame your best mate, but here you are still doing something stupidly reckless-emphasis on stupid since there were many factors you'd not taken to account. It would only be a few knick knacks. They would pawn one at different shops across a few towns and be steady for a few more months. At least that's how Cook said it went. It used to be him and Freddie, until the pothead decided to grow a conscious after his mum's death. The inconsequential items would not be missed, this family was more than well off and could easily find some other baubles to replace them.

But this plan was still rubbish.

"Look, it's just a few yards, gettin' sneaky with some camera's, slip in, slip out, and th' jobs done! No need for worries blondie," James persuaded, lighting up a smoke as we sit on the curb a few blocks out. "We're just even'n up the money, these blokes are burst'n with cash from their balls, it's about time some of it came our way, huh?" He gave my shoulder a shove, grinned, and gnashed the fag on the grass, getting up and walking towards Corvell Drive, the mark. It was the luxury end of the town, outside the city but made for millionaires, no doubt. The sun had set but a low purple hazed across the Atlantic. Another half hour and it would be time to move.

The end of the road fashioned a massive house, barely smaller than a mansion. Glass walls overlooked the coast while the windows were structured within brick, somewhat stable. The second floor was set over a terrace and bedroom balconies made the place seem too accessible. You are hesitant to follow through-it's too easy. Still, money is money, and with the family on a weekend getaway, there was only tonight. You put out your own fag and follow Cook, watching him strut ahead.

* * *

Before you know it, the stars are out and the night arrives. The plan is only fractionally better that the moon is hidden in it's phases tonight, no risk of getting caught from it's luminescence. You dress to match, all black-just a precaution-and a black bandana to cover the mouth. No ski masks, according the James, he's not a bloody terrorist. A simple backpack and socks over the shoes-no treadmarks, no footsteps that sound.

And then you're going. The driveway is cleared out of all the cars, a reassurance in this wildly idiotic notion that's about to happen. You're going, going, _gone,_ tucked in the shadows of the terrace. The only lights on illuminate the front garden of orange trees, the inside looks asleep and dim. He scales the terrace to a slender second floor balcony because ' _no one gives a fuck lock'n things up high.'_ You follow with nervous footing from socks scaling the structure. The window slides up with ease, used often in the summer, and you both tumble in with equal ease.

Still you can't help but think: This is too easy.

James has never been one to stop and think, so before you're fully on your feet, he's already out of the bedroom-the master bedroom apparently with darkened oak bedframes and smooth sleek furnishings. A mirror opposes you on the far wall and you're startled by your own figure in the dark. Your heart is about to beat right out your chest.

Three items apiece is what was agreed on. In and out in ten minutes tops. Coming out the bedroom overlooks the entrance to the lower level, lots of space, lots of elegance, lots of...emptiness if you're honest. James is already finished and heading up the winding staircase as you put two onyx encrusted bookcase holders in your bag. He signals to wrap up and jesus the adrenaline is making you dizzy, you can't believe it's going so fast. You understand now, when people say ' _I can't remember, it all happened so fast…'_ You try not to think that people hear those words after accidents.

A pack of silverware, of _real_ silver is tucked away in a cabinet in someone's room. You aim for nothing obvious that would be missed, and silverware will be easy to sell. Wrapped up tight, you slip it in your bag, carefully not to rattle anything before your eyes set on a beautiful sapphire watch with a deep blue and silver band. The gems match your eyes and you know immediately-obvious or not-you want it. So you take it. You can't even be bothered to put in the bag so you slip it on and fuck, doesn't it feel like water on your wrist.

And then a door opens down the hall. Quiet footsteps.

Cook knows better than to screw with a job, and _that's_ what makes the enclosing proximity even more terrifying. Running into a problem on your first and only job is enough to make you lose any cool you ever had going into this fucked up plan. So you run. You'd only gone three rooms over so you fucking run for the love of all things holy to the master bedroom again, while sliding the bag off your shoulders, cradling it in your arms. You don't bother climbing down the terrace but climb out the window ready to just fucking fall. Anything to get out right now. You've only just got on the other side of the balcony before a silhouette appears in the doorway and you panic. You jump and land ungracefully on your feet and roll on your back, you screwed up your shoulder as you tumbled but the adrenaline is making everything numb as you stumble to your feet.

"Please wait! That's my watch, please I need that back, it's for someone important!" a voice pleads behind you, cracking and about to cry. A girl by the sound of it, tears lodged in her throat. "Please no don't take it, no don't.." her voice dwindles off and she knows it is too late, as you run farther away.

You stifle your feelings behind your burning lungs as you haul ass to the end of the drive, finding Cook look startled at her distress. He pauses a moment before jogging alongside her.

"Fucked up din'ya?" You punch him rather forcefully in the arm before you both head back to yours, dropping off the bags before getting a much needed drink. You try not to let your own throat lodge as you think about that voice while tipping back tequila shots.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 of the installment. I'm hoping to get this out rapidly. If you have time to leave a small review, I'd appreciate it. Also expect mistakes as this was not proofread, and no I'm not sorry.**

Luminescence

Waxing Crescent Pt. I - Day 2

You wake up in the middle of the night with a parched disgusting taste in your mouth. The crackled ceiling above you is orange from the streetlights slipping in and you hate yourself when you turn over to fast to grab some water, finding your head throbbing, but not too unbearable.

It's 4 in the morning.

The watch lays on your bedside table glimmering a gross purple shade and you're aware of James snoring on the floor next to you. You can't sleep but you're exhausted, so you turn over and stare back at the ceiling until the streetlights go off and hints of morning churn your sour stomach back to sleep.

* * *

You wake a second time near midday. James had the courtesy to let you sleep, but you can't understand how he's already found the stomach to bang back his second beer. You drag yourself out of twisted, clammy sheets once you've succumbed to the point that you won't fall back asleep again.

A shower and a banana later, things are ok. He's already looked at shops to cash in yesterday's earnings and he thinks he has a winner about 25 minutes north. The owners are immigrants-not the legal sort, so if there's questions asked, he won't be hesitant to use blackmail on them. Not a terrorist, but still a prick.

Your shoulder aches and you try not to remember the girl on the balcony calling out.

* * *

He drives. You can't be bothered, but you still have to walk in with him to hold an appearance of a couple pawning his grandmother's belongings. You slide wrapped silverware and bookholders across a beat up countertop and James looks at you expectantly for your third item. It never comes. You both walk out content with a few thousand dollars, he grins and despite having dirty clothes and greasy hair, Cook reminds you of sunshine. He's happy here.

He drives another 45 minutes southwest to a different shop and he goes in alone to cash in his keep. You wait in the car, trying not to be so conscious of how stifling the car is in the middle of the afternoon. The old leather is sunbleached and there's multiple empty bottles in the backseat from when he's slept in his car. You realize you're in the poorer areas of Florida, one story shacks and overgrown yards. Even alone in the car you, cross your arms, hiding your third item from sight.

Four grand later and you're headed back home.

* * *

You spend a few hours at the beach while Cook heads to a bar to indulge in some of his paycheck. Neither of you mention another word about last night, but you can't get it out of your head. Putting some music on should try and get cyclic thoughts out of your head, the sun beats down strong and relentless. Four times a dip in the warm water is needed just to cool down. You are sure to be careful with how long you're out though, pale skin never did you much good in the sun.

You miss the moon.

When eyes open to the sunset, you hate yourself because you know you fucked up, been out here way too long and got burned on your chest and arms. Still something peaceful comes out of it. Checking the time brings out a laugh, because of course you've got a watch tan line now.

Relentless orange light shines parallel to the sea, and it peeks through your toes when you stretch your legs out. You pack up go home, with an uneasy feeling that the night is just beginning.

* * *

You go for a walk, taking your time lighting up a smoke and enjoying...well you're not quite sure. Enjoying _this,_ you suppose, everything around you right now. The air, the drugs, the music, the independence. Shoving hands deeper in your pockets doesn't take away the fact that something is nagging at you in the back at your mind.

It takes an hour before you scold yourself, admitting that your morals are killing you. Surrounded by a familiar purple haze across the sea, you curse yourself in a colorful selection of words while pulling a U-turn and grabbing the clothes from your place you never wanted to wear again.

' _Fuckin' idiot,_ _fucking_ _idiot'_ , is the only thing going through your head as you're back on Corvell drive, no bag this time, just the watch in your pocket. The driveway is still cleared, the orange trees still lit, the house still dark-but you know better. There is someone home.

The plan seems simple, just scale the terrace, open the window and place it on the dresser next to the curtain. No more than a minute. In and out. You hate how much you sound like James. The night is still on your side as you're cloaked in darkness and clothed in black. The shadows are plentiful and you are in a kind of disbelief, loathing yourself, that your heart isn't speeding like a jackrabbit right now, it's only been a day since your first B&E.

The terrace holds sturdy as you climb up, and the window opens with ease as well, silently, and you're thankful this bullshit is nearly done. You lean over the windowsill to place the watch carefully on the dresser, you move to pull out when your very attentive ears hear the click of a gun set to fire, and your eyes follow the sound through the dark to a very confident pose outlined across the room, arms straight and the gun pointed at your head.

* * *

"Get in the window," a raspy voice states, and your heart sinks, just realizing how much shit you're in.

You crawl in with ten times the normal amount of adrenaline seeping through your blood, shaking every step you take. It's all you do just to collapse on the ground when you're in. In a move you can't really decipher, she lowers her gun.

"You..brought my watch back? You're the one from yesterday," she says in a voice that makes it sound that like she's learning these things as she says them outloud. You're careful not to say anything. "Imagine that, a robber with a conscious, not something you see everyday," she half laughs, a bit nervous, although you can't see why since she's the one with the gun.

"Clearly this is your first time, no one brings back the things they take, so...I'm going to do you a favor and not turn you in. I don't know what else you took, but quite frankly, I'm not sure I care. Mum's always had too much shit in this place." It's strange having this conversation take place in the dark, and she must realize it too because she makes to get up and turn on the light on the far well.

Before you can stop yourself, you're on your feet and lunging across the room, anything to keep from revealing yourself. In less than two seconds, she's shoved across the wall with her outreached arm pinned by your hand a little too firmly. You see a vague outline of her features enough to know she's terrified and marked breathless, the gun dropped on the floor. You're not a violent person though and not going to start now.

"No light," you breathe out, and carefully let her go, backing up to the other side of your room where you were before.

"Okay," she gulps, a bit shaken, "no light." It hits you just how strange this whole situation, and making contact was never part of the plan-either time-and you're not about to indulge in playing with fire, so as she reaches to pick up the gun, you slip back out the window and for the second time in two days, you fuck up your shoulder as you leap of the terrace.

Spewing out a string of expletives only reassures you so much though when you realize that her gun has easy range to the side lawn. The firing crack never comes though, and in a gross sense of deja vu with her calling out "wait please come back!," you're running-literally for your life-with no Cook to catch up to.

It's not until you're home and a half hour into your shower, when you've finally stopped shaking, that you wonder why she wanted you to come back when you having nothing of hers left to give back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi all. This is going faster than expected but coming along well for not proof reading in my opinion. Leave a review for what's on your mind/what you think/what you'd like to see. More notes post-chapter. Enjoy, ~Rosey**

Luminescence

Waxing Crescent pt. II - Day 3

You're no genius but it didn't really take one to figure out that whatever happened the night prior - the last two nights actually - was a fucking weird happenstance. You try not to let it get stuck in your head.

You go for a run for the first time since you hit puberty and you hate yourself the entire pitiful distance of two miles when your lungs are imploding from your smoke-stained airways. You eat fruit for breakfast. You toss out your empty bottles and smoked fag ends to clear out your already tiny apartment.

You dwell on realizing it took doing something wrong to take a step in the right direction.

* * *

You see Cook.

This is his happy place. Although he is constantly causing trouble and being a public disturbance, no regard to anyone at all, you can tell that he's happy. He never stays still enough to soak up the sun but his mildly offensive bermuda shorts and loose tank top for the day tell you enough. You laugh as he throws empty cans into the sea and tempts fate by screaming across the water, to whatever else is out there.

He's a terrible influence, no one needs to convince you of that, but he still teaches you-and re-teaches you- things everyday. Points like Carpe Diem, and remembering to enjoy yourself. It scares you that he's ready to die at any time without a pause, and confuses you that _that's_ the time that makes you feel most alive.

He's heard from store cleaners and restaurant busboys about another mark coming up in a few days, the couple are going on a yacht getaway. He eyes you, inviting you to another share of goods, but you don't hesitate to decline.

You're still wrapping your head around this job anyway.

* * *

You drink again that night, but catch yourself before you slip in too deep. James has you in a bar by the beach and he's four shots in, but you never bring yourself to drink your fourth. You stay for a while, steady and buzzed while he progresses toward a point of stupidity. The bar has colored tiki lights hanging, and when James unbuttons his floral shirt to cheer from atop the counter, his chest gleans red and green, making you really unsure of just how drunk you actually are. Still the feeling is lovely with warm sea-air and intoxication in your blood, you're not fooling yourself, you know this feeling isn't going to last.

It's when he starts a threeway makeout session with two other college girls that you shake your head scoffing, and head out leaving a tenner where you sat.

* * *

Three shots of whatever has done enough to impair your sight but you hold steady enough to light a smoke and inhale deeply as you walk, the relief hitting you like marbles bursting in your body. You really should quit, but you can't quite care about that right now.

You breathe in sync with your steps, watching the shape of your feet as they tug forward. This happens for a while. You exhale the last of the Camel at the sky, the moon has peeked out tonight at last. A little more that a sliver brought out by surrounding stars. You never know why sometimes the moon looks beige and sometimes it looks silver, but regardless, you're pondering that question tonight.

Your feet have betrayed you, and how you managed to find this place unconsciously you'll never really know, but you pause while you look at the orange trees and then back at the water behind the large house. You see in the shadows under the terrace your discarded bandana-it probably came loose from the fall. The second fall that is.

The house is different this time. Still dark and the drive still clear, but a faint glow of light on the far side of the second floor shows signs of life. Just enough for _one_ life though. It's a strange perception having this happen because it doesn't feel like it's happening, it feels like you're _watching_ it happen. That's something wholly terrifying and you won't grasp just how much until tomorrow when you hate yourself in the morning.

With some familiarity, you clear the terrace and the window is already open. You aren't very nervous, but if the alcohol and nicotine would _let_ you get nervous, it's that neutral feeling that _would_ make you nervous. Right now though, you are tired and your chest is heavy, but you still want to be here.

Maybe you're attracted to the grandeur of the place, maybe it's the adrenaline (but then you ignore that because, honestly, you've got enough anxiety as it is without adding heart attacks to the running list), maybe it's the anonyminity, but you can feel it. ' _It's the air,'_ you'll tell yourself, that makes you be impulsive and reckless. You'll tell yourself a lot of things before the night is over.

* * *

You hear music a few rooms down and see for the first time the small hallway faintly lit up. You tumble in the room with some impressive ease considering your inebriated state, and thoughtlessly foot your way through the hall. In a right state of mind, you're well aware of how this would look. _Stalker, robber, creep, criminal, psychotic._ Right now though, the only word coming to mind is _unavoidable._

You recognize the band as one of your favorites. "Sweater Weather" is playing from a vinyl player directly in sight. The room that's lit up is, thankfully, positioned so that the closet is the only in view from the hallway, everything else extending to the side. You can see the window-the floor to ceiling window-taking up half of the far wall, next to the closet and deduce that the bed, and the girl supposedly in it, must be against the wall of the doorframe, out of view.

You hear her nose being blown a lot.

When the song ends, you find a strange burst of courage and step forward to peek in the room. The girl is leaned across the bed-away from you-to put something on the floor. You take the moment to flick the swtich to your right. The room goes dark and you find yourself inadverdently holding your breath. You hear her gasp but she doesn't move a muscle. She doesn't scream. Everything is painfully silent for longest few seconds of your life.

And then you walk in. "No lights," you breathe. For a moment of panic, there is no response and you're not even sure she heard it. It's most suspenseful scene from the movie you're watching behind your own eyes, and that becomes a mindfuck in and of itself.

"Okay," her voice cracks finally. Neither of you move for a moment, but then you find yourself walking toward her vinyl collection. There is just enough moonlight to make out some contrastive covers and you find the second album of the artist already on. Switching the records out, you crackle the second disk to life as the needle scratches and settles smoothly.

The fracture of moon is on your side, outlining your body but showing none of your features. You can see vague parts of her though. She's slender, more slender than you could imagine from remembering how sternly she held a gun just yesterday. She has her hair down and splayed out across her shoulders, and you think it's dark but you can't be sure. You laugh to yourself when you think it must be darker than yours, but then again, everyone's hair is darker than your own peroxide style. The moon is too dark to really show anything else.

"Cry Baby" is playing and its' sad nostalgia brings a strange mix of comfort and pain to you. You walk toward her elongated windows and sit cross legged against them, looking her direction. Your entire figure must be blacked out and in a moment of sober clarity you see things from her view.

"I didn't mean to just come back or anyt-"

"No, it's alright, it's...okay," she's quick to interrupt with and you can't help the perception that she's lonely. Her voice is thick though, and you realize she's been crying. It explains blowing her nose, the trash can by her bed.

"Wiped Out!" plays and neither of you have moved. The alcohol is starting to settle and you lean your head back against the window, noting how your own hair is illuminated white from the moon directly behind you.

"Can we just stay like this...for a bit?" you manage to get out of your throat. Like this, with this music, just being around another human who can _feel_ something because, you hate to admit it, your own lonliness is killing you too. She slips her legs under her sheets and matches your cross legged stance, settling in for what seems to be while.

"Yeah, we can," she husks out, leaning against her pillows, "for a bit." Neither of you inquire about the other. Neither of you ask why you're here, why she's been crying, where her family is, why _the actual fuck_ any of this is okay. Because right now, this works. Right now, you just need each other in the most distant way possible.

You don' remember when you fell asleep.

' _I'm back and forth I think I'm going crazy,_

 _I'm back and forth I can't make up my mind,_

 _I'm up and down I'm never sati-_

 _I'm up and down I'm never satisfied._

 _I'm back and forth I think I'm going crazy,_

 _I'm back and forth I can't make up my mind,_

 _I'm up and down I'm never sati-_

 _I'm up and down I'm never satisfied'_

* * *

You never did manage to sleep well after you drank, so when you wake up at 4 am the next morning, the pink of sunrise beckons outside the window. It's not until you look back at a room that's not yours that you freeze. You neck aches and fucking hell your bum is dead asleep.

You somehow manage to get to your feet with pins and needles waking you up everywhere. The record has stopped but it doesn't look like the girl got up to turn it off. She's turned over in her bed, facing the wall and burrowed in a duvet despite the summer warmth.

Red. Flaming, scarlet red hair. You shake your head in desbelief before smirking to yourself, never would you have guessed her to have hair like that. You dwell a bit longer than expected at her hair splayed over her pillows before closing the bedroom door to a crack and leaving the house at the end of Corvell drive.

The whole walk home is spent trying to determine why this small girl had the ease to fall asleep with a robber on the other side of her bedroom.

 **The album Naomi plays is The Neighbourhood's "Wiped Out" album. I met my girlfriend to it. It means a lot to me and I hope I can show just how much it means in this story. Expect more soon xx**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi all. Obviously took longer than other chapters, but there's also lots more so I'm not that sorry. Hope you like it. Leave a review, a like, whatever takes your fancy. ~Rosey**

Luminescence

Waxing Crescent pt. III - Day 4

The sun is not your friend. It only takes a solid hour before you realize how warm out it gets that day. It weighs down like a backpack of stinging on your shoulders, making your neck uncomfortably clammy. You debate shaving your head just so you can maybe stop perspiring out of every square inch of your skin every day you're here. You grumble and resort to pinning the blinding blond mess up in a bun.

James spends his time mapping out the next mark, spending more time and focus on these blueprints than you ever saw throughout all your years in early college, before he dropped out that is. He's kinder here and doesn't fill with instant rage when someone bumps into him. It doesn't take a genius to work out that he's content, but he's still lonely.

Part of you wishes you could fill that void with each other. Get rid of that nagging loneliness by having him be that comforting body in the room with you, but for some reason neither of you ever expand on, it will never happen like that. Instead of fitting your two halves into one whole, you acknowledge that you're just two halves accepting your unfulfilled, _unhappy_ state around the other.

It frustrates you.

* * *

You go on a weird bender that afternoon. A mix of striving toward a wholesome life and completely degrading any progress you've begun to make. You won't admit to yourself that making a fruit salad while chain smoking cancels each other out. You won't admit a lot of things.

You go to the beach again. Maybe you're just doing things to piss yourself off more, but with a layer of sunblock on your upper body, you lounge on the sand. It's softer than usual and as the sun begins to dip from overhead, so does the scalding heat the sand collects.

You think about the girl with the fiery hair. You think about just how fucked she must be to befriend a criminal. ' _I'm no criminal,'_ you right yourself quickly, but get confused in technicalities, because, really, you are but then again, _you're_ not. It becomes a mindfuck and you ignore the labels of the whole unorthodox situation.

The girl can't be ignored however, no matter how much you might try. You want to know why she was crying, or why the watch is important. You want to know how on earth she turned into this crumpled up human when the day prior she was steadfast and strong in her stance about to blow your brains out. Being lost in thoughts that won't get answered doesn't help, and you know that, so you get up and dabble your feet along the water, deciding to actually take a dip in tropical seas for once. Your suit is unmatched with a purple top and striped bottoms. You prepare for the plunge when you hear an obnoxious hollering from the end of the beach. It's nearly 4 in the afternoon, so naturally you giggle when James-smashed-comes running down the other end of the tideline in his red trunks and half-burnt, half-tanned chest. It's darkened quite a bit from when you've first moved out here with him tailing along, remembering that he was so pasty white that he gleaned in the sun.

It's now when he's whooping down the coast with his arms spread out like a plane, annoying every relaxed beach goer, that your heart breaks a little bit. He slams into you with an encompassing hug that mildly drowns you and tosses you over your shoulder while you shriek and kick. You won't ever tell him that you love it and that you really do love him. This moment is everything you're grateful that it's with him.

He high steps into the water, splashing everywhere, and the two of you are roaring with laughter. A moment later and he takes you down from over his shoulder to holding you in his arms, and just as you hoped things (or not hoped) things had settled down, he free-falls backward grasping you tightly-your scream gets drowned by a mouthful of seawater. He lets you go then and the two of you push out of the water, about waist high. The both of you come up faster than anticipated-and closer-so you grab onto him to steady yourself while trying to catch a breath.

It takes you a second before you realize he leaned in to kiss you briefly, because just as quickly, he pulled back muttering a slightly drunken "I didn't..mean-it wasn't like that, I wasn't thinking-"

You stop him with a light hand to his chest and you stare down at the water between your feet. The water is so clear, you can see your feet down at the bottom.

"I know, Cook," you say simply, sighing. "Me too." The mood has changed and it's so painfully present, this thing you both share. This wildly lonely ache in paradise and you think that it's so completely _unfair_ that you can't help each other even if you wanted to because things don't work like that-you don't work like that because you aren't wired that way.

It's all you can do to lean your head onto his shoulder, feeling heartbroken again, and he wraps you up a gentler encompassing hug, trying not to fracture your already fragile state. The heat on your cheeks is the only indication of your crying, and not the seawater. A dam rattles in you and you can hear these weird choking sounds as he holds you together completely. His strong stature is the only thing keeping your legs from giving out. Cook has always been so strong, and he won't give in because you know-whether he's here or not-he's always setting an example for Paddy. Even four thousand miles across the Atlantic, he never stops thinking about his brother, taken away from him and under care of his careless mother.

No amount of will in your body can keep your mind off the older version of you, and ultimately that's what breaks your dam.

* * *

When things are okay (more like stable, because things will never be okay) again, he makes sure you're alright, then pokes fun of you a little bit to get you smiling again because that's just Cook. Forever joking around. He helps gather your sparse things and you walk home holding his hand.

You make a proper dinner at home. Real food for you and James, and he even brings over a gateaux; you're flattered even though you have no idea what the fuck a gateaux is. His nights have been long lately, and the drinking has caught up to him. He lights up a blunt on your shitty balcony outside and you think some part of him found a bit of relief in this afternoon too; his eyes look weary and you decide a bit of weed and a film will be enough for tonight.

You sit on the end of your futon and he sprawls out, taking up the longer length of it, passing the smoke between the two of you. By the end of the film, his head is on your thigh and you've only just come to realize your hands were running through his hair. The blunt knocked him out and he sleeps soundly. Part of you wonders about red hair in your hands.

You steal a pillow from the ground and substitute it for your thigh, leaving him to sleep. He doesn't move, even when you grab a dead half blunt from his lips. You grab your keys and dim the lights before closing the apartment door with a click.

* * *

It's dark out by the time your legs find a set rhythm. Somehow you find yourself back at the beach and then-surprising even yourself-you're stripping. In just your underwear you plunge into warm dark waters, ignoring a couple people in the distance pointing. It's refreshing and satisfying and a hell of a lot more freeing than earlier. You stay in there long enough for the distant people to lose interest and after a couple minutes, no one around knows anyone's in the water at all. Your legs float and toes dig through the loose sand. You find a firm patch of.. _something_ beneath you, and use your toes to pick something smoother than a rock up.

In the light of a quarter-full moon, you wipe dripping water off a smooth rock with a flower indentation. A sand dollar. You smile to yourself before holding it tightly in your fist. You air dry on the beach when you start to shiver from the waves, and take the time to light up the last of Cook's smoke. A warm laziness rushes over you once you're fractionally high and you're dry enough to put your clothes back on. You gaze at the moon as you pull a long drag and something about it's eternal presence is comforting and terrifying. You don't believe in God but you're sure this is the closest embodiment you'll get.

Then you're walking again. The steps are mechanical and you don't even know how you're thinking enough to take them when the road ends and you nearly pass the house on the end of Corvell drive entirely. Dim and still massive. You're too high to go through that entire ordeal right now so you take a few minutes to look around the house instead.

You weren't expecting it to be so...you can't think of the words. It's built just above a gravelly steep. There's lots of dune grass and tropical plants in some version of the Florida wilds beyond their (immaculate) backyard lawn. The water is about thirty meters out and a little farther down, after a prickly steep descent. The house itself looks to be a staple of contemporary architecture that doesn't quite fit in this version of paradise. You expected something more...breathable? It isn't until you turned the other corner that you see two more balconies on the opposite side of the house that you originally slipped into. A coral-themed brick lines this wall and seems intentionally uneven but you can't imagine that this design looks complementary to the rest of the house's sleeker features.

It's this coral wall that catches your eye though because on the left hand balcony, you hear the Neighbourhood's muffled voice sending your attention to the faint light in the room.

Naturally you tempt fate and find yourself scaling the wall. The footholds and easy grasps would be almost too easy in a right sense of mind, but it's a bit trickier when your mind's long gone. There's just enough sense to not drop right on her balcony though in complete view so you sit on the edge of the railing and give two sharp knocks on her window instead.

* * *

Your heart jumps to your throat when a sound rattles your window. Your legs slip off the bed to turn the music down a bit, and a long moment later three soft knocks sound. You're hesitant to walk over to slide the door open, but you do it anyway.

It's just gone an inch when a hand flies out to catch the door, freezing it. As if your heart wasn't racing already. You hear that voice again, and a fucked up sense of excitement inflates your lungs.

"Light?"

You don't move, anxious to see what happens if the light stays on, but she only repeats herself and you give in far too easily, foot a few steps across the room until it's all gone dim again, barely illuminated. Then the door opens.

She steps in and you can't really breathe because she's tall and pale with luminescent skin and even brighter hair like some goddess that's stepped right out of the Atlantic itself. You can't really do much of anything because even though you've never seen her before, you don't want to do anything that will scare her off. In a completely psychotic series of events over the past couple nights that should have never even allowed themselves to unfold, you actually enjoy her presence. You flop in your bed like a giraffe that never really learned how to use it's legs, and stare at this outline of someone a little bit unreal. She even smells of the sand and salty ocean.

She looks uncomfortable it seems, until she realizes where she is, and then she relaxes a bit more as she sees your room. Sits cross legged against the window again. You tuck your own legs under your sheets and allow the quiet music to ease things in. The breeze through the open door makes her baby hairs fly a little bit.

"Hi," you start. She waits a moment before giving an equally unsure, "Hi." Another few minutes pass and unlike yesterday, the silence isn't welcome.

"Do you mind if I..change the song?" she asks abruptly, kind of spewing the words out. ' _Daddy Issues'_ is playing and her body language is the epitome of uncomfortable.

"No, of course," and she stretches over to skip the needle a bit. The girl becomes a lot more at ease once the words have switched. She sighs when the light chimes in the music begin.

"This is my favorite," she states in a higher voice. You can see the outline of her head nodding with the song and she doesn't know that it's yours too.

' _Sooo Dave, can you let your baby be my girl?'_

' _Would you let your baby be myyy girl?'_

"You're not from here are you?" you find the gall to ask. She hesitates before answering.

"What makes you ask?"

"The accent, kind of a dead give away," you smile in response, though she won't see. She sounded very British. If she made a face, you don't see it.

"Caught that, hm?" she wondered, "Yeah, from Bristol."

"Of course," you're scoffing now because really the whole situation just seems to ironic.

"What?" She's defensive.

"We moved from Bath. Neighbors, and all that," you state simply. She huffs and runs her hands atop her silver hair, shaking her head.

"There goes the neighborhood," she mutters. Musical puns. Clever.

The silence sets in again. She gets to her feet after a while and looks back at your vinyls, holding it at an odd angle so the light will hit it right. She digs through a few and finds one she likes, stopping the needle and switching out records. You hear the interludes for ' _An Awesome Wave,'_ noting the very melancholy taste in music the bright haired girl has.

"What's special about the watch?" she asks suddenly, blurting it out. Your heart grows heavy.

"Um, itt's...for a friend." You hear your voice come out sullen, but there's nothing you do about it. "Thank you for bringing it back, that was kind of you." She ignores the gratitude. You try not to think _Thank you for coming back._

"You went through a lot of...dangerous trouble for a friend," she delves.

"You're one to talk," you snap back. Looking back at it though, it was the girl who took a fuck ton more risks this week and for..what?

"Why are you here?" you ask, genuinely curious. You can tell she becomes sheepish, embarrassed, holding her hands in her lap and her head falls down, likely looking at the floor.

"I.. don't know. Tempting fate, I suppose," she says quietly.

"That's a shitty thing to do," you say shortly. You're getting worked up, and frustrated, and just _fucking angry_ because this girl is pushing all the wrong buttons that you weren't supposed to let anyone see. It's not her fault and you hadn't meant to take it out on her but you can't help it because it's all so fucking _unfair._ You crack. "One of these days it's going to come back with a vengeance and when it does, you'll be shit out of luck." Your voice cracks a lot and there's a lot of other parts cracking that don't actually show.

It happens quickly then. You reach over to turn on the light and stop whatever the hell they're both playing at, but by the time you rub the wetness starting from your eyes and look back. She's already gone.

The door is left open in her wake.

' _Tide out, tide in,_

 _A flood of blood to the heart and the fear slipstreams.'_

 **The lyrics are from alt-J's song Bloodflood, from their album An Awesome Wave, and the shared favorite song the girls have is the Neighbourhood's Single. Both are great songs, take a look if you have the time.**


	5. Chapter 5

**The last part of chapter 4 switched to our favorite redhead's point of view. Let's see what she's been up to now...**

 **Reviews are always nice and likes are appreciated. ~Rosey**

Luminescence

Waxing Crescent pt. IV - Day 5

You awake under stifling covers in the morning. The tropical sun peaks its rays in your room but you can't be bothered. You huff and roll over for a minute before dragging yourself up and deciding upon a cool shower, hoping that it'll wither both your sweat and your temper.

You're angry at letting your emotions get the best of you last night upon a simple question by the other girl. You're angry at letting your emotions get the best of you for the past couple of nights when you-quite simply- can _not_ seem to get your shit together. Things with Effy had been happening so rapidly while not moving forward at all. Now you're unsure they'll ever get the chance to move again.

You're balling your red hair in your fists, sopping wet under the shower head and collapse your head against cool tile in frustration and growing tears. They are roughly wiped aside-not doing a lick of difference in the shower-and step out the tub, twirling your red mass into a top bun like the girl had.

The blonde: she was another enigma altogether. She was captivating and enthralling, yet hiding something from the way you've yet to see her really sober. You wonder if she'll ever open up and if you'll get to see the features on her face- that's if you get to see her again.

Whipping your towel into the mirror, you loathe your actions before going to make some breakfast.

* * *

You decide to go see her today, Halfway through the afternoon after a long chat with Katie and some shallow talk about Miami, you grab a light sundress and your bag, taking the bike instead of the car to go to the hospital.

The walls are depressing and lack humanity, with gross fluorescents lighting up the halls and stale cheap coffee cups littering the garbage cans in the waiting room. But the nurses are kind, they really are. A nice lady with curly brown hair lets you know the room number and how she's doing. Seems there's no change.

You swallow the lump of hope clogging your throat and feel the touch of reality on the skin of your arms, making your muscles heavy and drooping your figure. You've only just got to the wooden door before you're exhausted and you know that once it's opened, your walls will drop.

Suddenly, you can't do it. You can't go in. It's suffocating between the stale air, the sad reality, and all these _fucking_ emotions that- no. You can't go in. So you walk out the stair entrance on the other side of the floor, not willing to see the kind nurses face smile with sad pity as you leave as soon as you arrive. The back of your neck is starting to heat and you know you're going to be fucking sweating again so-fuck it-you go to Carson's gym. You're all too aware at how strange it is seeing a small girl in dress walk into a boxing gym, but it doesn't matter much. Your dad bought it so they can turn their heads all they want, but you've got full right to kick anyone out as soon as you like.

A quick change from your spare pair of clothes in the locker room and you're back out, climbing into the ring and telling Ryan to get in, or he's fired. He quickly complies even though he's drenched with sweat from just getting out of the ring. He grabs his head gear and punching mitts, barely getting them wrapped and tightened before your frustration cracks out. _WHAM._ Right in his one glove actually on, he swears a bit before doing a double tap and holding your targets up.

 _WHAM. Ba-boom. Whap, whap, ba-WHAM._

You take in every stance Rob taught you, pivoting and outstretching your arm, gloves up, using momentum. But the main part of you isn't fighting with technique, it's fighting with the anger that life doesn't get to take a beating itself, it doesn't get karma and it _doesn't get hurt._ So this is the best you got. And you're gonna make sure it hurts as much as it can.

 _WHAM. Ba-WHAM._ Double punch, jab, punch, side swing, uppercut. _Ch-WHAM._

Ryan doesn't say a word, he doesn't complain, he takes the full brunt of all your hits. Even though you're small, you were raised to know the Fitches pack a mean punch, and you admire his tenacity, physically seeing his core struggle to stay tightened as he fatigues. You give one more punch before stepping forward and giving him a half hug, still mildly put off by his dripping sweat.

"Well shit Miss Emily, think you can save me some employees 'til I can get some new ones?" Carson Willis leaned against the ring, his ballcap too big for his head. You give a satisfied tired smile.

"Sorry Carson, rough day." You turn to Ryan and give him the rest of the day off, and he bows out to go shower, panting and happy to be done. "When my dad gets in this week, til him to give Ryan a bonus, please."

"Sure thing miss, good thing you let'im get out or he'd be knocked out on my mats. Ain't good for business," he waggles his finger at you. The gloves raise in surrender and he holds open a side for you to slide out. You unwrap your tape and Carson is staring. It's unsettling.

"Y'know miss Emily, everybody knows you smart girl. That ain't a question," he starts and you can't bring yourself to look up at him. You stretch your sweaty fingers before gathering everything up. He stops you and catches your hand, holding one between both of his weathered palms. "But I hope you know whatever you try'na fix can't be done with these," he states, patting your knuckles. "It's done with this," and taps your head with a finger. "I'm sure a smart girl like you coulda fig'a it out 'ventually, but lemme just save you some time 'n grief." He smiles then and you're looking at his eyes all creased with crows feet and old soul happiness. You give a sigh and a small smile.

"Thanks Carson."

"Sure thing miss Emily," he drawls out. "Now damn, git ya ass to the locker room, makin' my gym smell like wet dog," he chimes and fans his nose. You shove him playfully and blush a little bit before taking your second shower in one day.

* * *

You wave goodbye to Ryan as you leave the gym the same time as him, and go to the beach. The boxing wore you out and you take some time in the late afternoon to relax. You eyes close and smell the salt of the water in the air.

You think of blonde hair.

* * *

When next you wake up, the sun has set and the last of the purple in the air slides into the dark blue of the night. The moon is almost half full but not quite, a sliver shy of it. You feel more relaxed and wholesome than you have in a while. And hungry, you realize as a loud grumble comes from your stomach.

You opt to stop by a thai restaurant a few blocks away and order take out. With red curry on one handle and your purse on the other, you lazily bike home. There is no rush to the evening and you lounge on the couch panting from the spiciness of your meal while yelling at stupid choices during an episode of The Bachelor.

When you finally decide to go change, the sliding door is wide open, with a cool breeze spilling through the room. You pause and look for a figure in the dark but there is none. You sigh, too tired to be bothered with the suspicion for the night, and switch the light on to flop in your bed.

It's not until your head whacks something hard that you grimace and pull a rock from behind your head. Well, it felt like a rock. A smooth piece of flat stone bevelled with a five pronged flower in the middle, and a strip of paper taped on it. You flip the paper over and see an elongated scrawl.

' _ **Something lucky for when you're "shit outta luck".'**_

You stare for a while before leaving the door open and turning the light off, keeping the stone under your pillow and hoping with whatever hope you didn't leave in the hospital that the girl will come back.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hi all, guess who's alive? I hadn't thought about this for a while until I got a trickle of random reviews out of nowhere so I thought 'New Year, new chapter.' Seems like a good start to me. Hope you all like it, drop a review if you do. Happy 2018 ~Rosey**

Luminescence

Waxing Crescent pt. V - Day 6

There's an odd sort of silence that fills the next day when you wake up back in your place. The night hadn't gone like anything you'd expected-which doesn't count for much. The whole situation is so unorthodox that any expectation has absolutely no right to be predictably established yet. Still, you can't help but think, she was on a quick-fire trigger.

You want to know more.

The silence fills not with sound, but thought. You'd come in during the early hours of the morning craving touch, and so you'd settled yourself back under James' head. The blunt had him out cold-he didn't even know you had left. When the sun slips its orange rays in far too soon, he stirs, and you follow. Neither of you move. Instead, you thread your fingers through his hair.

"We'll be alright, won't we Naoms?" he asks, reaching a hand up to his head, catching your fingers what seemed like an hour later. You don't answer right away.

"Think we have to be," is all you can muster.

* * *

The early afternoon finally gets the both of you moving. Cook had gone to follow through with some others on the next hit, leaving you a bit stunned when he kisses you goodbye on the cheek. _Boy's finally goin' soft._

You don't really know what to do. Being out of the job and stuck in your head was enough to become restless. The debacle ends with a deep cleanse of the apartment-dusting, wiping, scrubbing, sterilizing everything in sight. Hours pass but there was only so much work to do, and as the last window gets wiped down, you know you have to get outside.

Stepping out, you underestimate the heat. Even a quarter sleeve black tee makes you melt in ninety something degrees. You stroll to the beach indulging in the free time and light a smoke. Toes tunneling in the sand, you sigh-hiding in shade-at the cool silkiness in the heat.

It seemed that a stroll around the boardwalk would be fitting today. Countless surf shops, bars, and restaurants passed on the ground floor of hotels. It looked endless with all the curves and steady stream of tourists, but before you know it, the smoke burns out and the planks end beneath your feet. Walking back is much of the same. Your eye catches on the end however toward a few people walking around in workout gear not overbearing sunglasses and sundresses.

There's a gym at the start of the boardwalk that you'd missed when you walked straight on from the beach. It's called Carson's and you make a mental note to come back another time. Maybe it'll keep from getting overly restless.

You grab some whiskey from a liquor store heading home and waste the day away.

* * *

It's 9:30 in the evening and the room is spinning. The sky out your window lulls a deep blue, not too dark quite yet. Cook's not back and you're thinking recklessly of India and its' dangerous indulgences. You shouldn't be doing that, you know better, but the grief overflows and the anger, the frustrations pile up. The giddiness of drunken energy concentrates and intensifies, but you don't cry. Fuck no, you don't cry. You leave instead. You take a wildly long drag-coughing up a lung-but you keep walking like it's your day job, right up on Corvell.

You don't admit you waited all day for night to fall so you could come back.

A long thick crescent of the moon shines a dull silver tonight, nothing terribly bright but the heat seems to intensify it in your head. The house is dark, not even the bedroom light on. For the first time in a long time, you're too drunk to tempt fate, which really says something. Fear for climbing to the room becomes to gather quickly, so naturally without thinking anything through or any respect for potential consequence, you try the front door. By some gross blessing of fate, it's open.

It's much different then, seeing the house from below and not over the usual banister. The space looks open and nice but undoubtedly empty-these are all passing thoughts as you glide up the stairs with your feet on autopilot. Before you know it, you're back in familiar territory, a thin hallway with several doors and the one at the end languidly open. Sense trickles in ever so slightly. You feel the breath thick in your lungs and a pang of uneasiness at the emptiness you expect to be in the room.

But it's not. One step in the door is all it takes to see the girl is out on balcony, and with the moon straining to shed enough light, you can finally make out her figure. She was small, you knew that, but also quite thin. The angle of her shoulders and the slight push of her leaned hips accented the curve of her spine. She was tiny, yes, but even with your drunken state of mind, it wasn't hard to see the slight definition on her arms, her thighs, a shadow of muscle highlighted from the moon.

You stare a while-it seems a lot longer when you don't know how much time is passing-and notice subtle turns of her head, looking around. The hair looks almost pale but it's obvious even in dulling light how much red is embedded in long strands. You give yourself another moment before moving to the far wall hiding in the shadow untouched by the balcony door, rapping a soft knock on the glass.

There's no movement for a while. An extended pause later, the door slides open and you can't help but hold your breath. A fluster of warm air pushes through and the tiny girl follows. It's the first you've seen her height, not being aimed at with a gun. She's faced away and you use the shred of sober inhibition you've got left to not tug her arm and turn her around.

You tell yourself less is more.

She's still faced away, and you're not an idiot, she must know you're right behind her, but as the door's pulled closed, she doesn't turn around. You're not sure what to do and there's a mixture of awkwardness and anticipation hanging in the thick air. Luckily, you don't have to choose. Looking away still, she moves to the bed. The light of luminescence shines on the edge of the covers, and when the girl makes to sit down, you can't deny the frustration as the shadow is cast from her stomach upward. Still in the dark.

You sit down in the shadow with the record player next to you. You wait, it seems you are both waiting, and for what-that's what is unsure. She makes the first move then.

"You mind?" as she points a thin finger to the records. You start to shake your head before you realize she can't see that. It doesn't stop her from getting up without your response and walking over to the player. For a second-one split second-the light shined on her face moving from shadow to shadow, and one second was all it took. Big brown eyes, small quaint nose, full lips. A brief flash and you can't breathe.

It doesn't get easier as she sweeps through dark albums, and you get a rush of floral strawberries pushing through your senses. You don't reach out and touch her, despite a small part of you that is dying to do so. She settles on an old Atlas Genius album, _When it Was Now._ The record skips and the sounds edges out. You stare at her long fingers laying over the needle.

She steps back to the bed and you grow used to the sound. Songs play and she settles on the edge of the bed turning her back against the wall. You lean back and do the same. Nearly six songs in and she leans down under the skirt of her bed and pulls a bottle out. Unscrewing it and downing a swig, she wipes her mouth and shudders with raspy sputter.

You try to ignore how hyper conscious you feel about your own lips parting.

Her hand stretches out towards you with the bottle, and you know you shouldn't. You're well drunk, already woozy, but somehow you can't bring yourself to care. You lean forward on your knees, moonlight blinding you for a second, before grasping the bottom and sinking back into the shadows.

One swig later, as you try not to puke, the heat hits your stomach nicely. Another song passes.

"I'm hesitant to talk on the off chance you'll shoot me this time," you state bluntly between musical lulls. You see her red hair shake a bit.

"That was..very unfair of me, I was just a bit high-strung at the time. Lots going on," she admitted, "I cringe a bit with my temper so sorry for that." You take another swig of what you taste to be rum.

"So...shall I hold off asking about that one, again?" She's quiet for a moment before reaching a hand back out from the shadows.

"I need to be drunk for that," she mutters under her breath, and for the first time, your faces both slip out of the dark as you hand the rum back. The moon's only caught the bottom of her nose and her lips, but you're watching her mouth as she speaks the words so intently, you're not really sure when you let go of the alcohol since her head tosses back for more.

Between her lips and the dark outline of her throat, you pray that you didn't stare long. A long moment passes and you let yourself listen to needle-skipped sound.

"Well then," and you reach to exchange liquor once more, "girl from Bath. What now?"

"Mmm I'm unsure, but it might be a step not having to call you 'Girl from Bristol'." You smile at her candor.

"Fine then, you can stick with 'Bristol'." You hear a scoff from the far side of the room.

"And what, I'm supposed to reply to 'Bath?'" she sulks. You giggle rather stupidly in drunk demeanor.

"It does sound rather pet-like, doesn't it?" She makes a noise of disgust on the bed. "Alright, fine, what about just 'Red' then?"

"Oh wow, cheers, very original that one," she drawls thickly. The alcohol is starting to burn a deeper rasp in her throat and you notice you're clinging to her every word.

"It's 'Bath' or 'Red,' your pick." She concedes to Red.

* * *

The next half hour picks up rapidly. The album is changed to Bad Suns, and the balcony door is open trying to blow out some of the stale alcohol beginning to drift in the air. The girl gets tipsy and you border blacking out. You have the sense to ask for water, and she tosses a half empty bottle at you from her bedside table. Naturally, you drop it. She begins to giggle as you make light-but cautious-conversation. She has a sister, and both parents. She mentions a brother but you don't make much of him. They're in Miami indefinitely.

You don't know why she mentions that bit.

It was going fine, until she asks about Bristol and English life compared to being here, and you don't know how it managed to come out so bluntly.

"My mum's dead." There's a painful silence awkwardly filled with upbeat music. The gravity of the statement begins to dawn on you. "My mum, Gina, she died." You flick the needle off the record watching the disc spin aimlessly. The room's spinning too. "She fell in love, went to India, and died of yellow fever in two months. Last I heard from her, she was going to Bombay, told me she'd call when they were leaving," a hot tear is burning on your cheek, "but they never left."

As devastated as you are saying the words out loud, there's a sick kind of relief that comes with it. James knew from the start, he was there when you got the news, but to say it aloud to someone who doesn't know, it's a breath of relief that comes packaged with a crack in your reservoir dam of control. You breathe shaky breaths, not willing to let it out all at once.

Red doesn't say anything, she didn't respond. Instead she does something unwarranted and balancing on reckless. The girl stands-albeit a bit shaky-and steps over to the record player again. You smell her burst of floral and something in the rush gives a strong grounding breath, it keeps you mildly together.

The wall of the balcony is what you're leaned against with outstretched legs, while the record stand rests by your calves on the adjacent wall. There's a small corner of nothing where you'd been resting the bottle-now half gone. Red reaches down over you to pick it up, and your breath hitches in your throat, she is dangerously close to your face. You can smell the rum and strawberries now.

She steps over you, tucked in the square of space, and slides her back down against the wall, pulling her knees over your legs when she's down-careful not to touch you.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. You sniff loudly and have some of the water next to you.

"Yeah, me too." Maybe it was the grief, or maybe it was proximity, you don't know. But the heaviness-and tiredness-brings your arms crossed over her knees, and you droop your head down on your forearms. You must look childish, but the heat under your arms is nice. She doesn't move. The touch is rather innocent, supportive if anything, but you know it breaks boundaries in multiple ways. One in that you shouldn't be touching, you shouldn't have this familiarity, but also in that, after a week, she is seated _next_ to you and you are _touching._

"The watch belongs to my best friend. Effy. She's in the hospital," Red says after a while, quietly. "She was driving to tell a boy she loved to come back to her, to keep her watch while he was gone so that he had to bring it back to her one day." The girl's fingers find hold of your hand tucked under crossed arms, holding a few fingers like she was tugging on a ribbon.

"She was speeding to the airport, and a truck began to switch lanes. He didn't see her come in so fast-that's what the police said-and it pushed her car against the wall. She was half crumpled together like a can before the car flipped and skidded a hundred yards. They don't know if she'll wake up." Her voice begins to falter and crack at the end, but she doesn't move, only pinches your fingers a bit tighter. "I can't lose that watch, it's not mine to lose." You hesitate to comfort her despite the already touching the girl.

You settle with a squeeze of her hand and an echoed response, "I'm sorry." What else can be said?

* * *

When you wake the next morning, it's just past 5, sun trickling in. You've been here before at this hour but that's not what makes your eyes fly open.

It's that you see red hair on a pillow to your right, faced away from you. And you're shirtless in her bed.


End file.
